


Toys are for Kids and Idiots

by ThePrincePeach



Series: The corpse in the corner begins to weep at what was taken from him. [9]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Haunting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Will add more tags as requested or needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29792379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePrincePeach/pseuds/ThePrincePeach
Summary: Michael was late for the tea party, Elizabeth hesitantly accepts his apology and pours him a cup of fake-tea into a plastic cup.Father cries from the other room.Mike was never a fan of tea parties, though. Michael has turned into the breaker of promises.
Series: The corpse in the corner begins to weep at what was taken from him. [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815121
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Toys are for Kids and Idiots

Michael hated dolls. Well, hatred took over fear, really. Michael was scared of dolls. 

Michael was scared of dolls. 

He opened his eyes and stared up the ceiling of his dark bedroom, hearing a faint sobbing from the other room that he quickly recognized to be Father’s. It happened nearly every night, sometimes popping up in the afternoons or early evenings; Father sobbing. Michael was tired of crying, he was sure Father was as well but just couldn’t stop. The boy rolled onto his side and turned his eyes to the door instead, the light creeping under it and stretching out past the shadows of the hardwood floor. Michael knew Father would kill himself if Michael ever showed signs of leaving him. Better to cut the tie before someone else can – Michael guessed. And so, Michael was caught between the loving son role of helping his father and the role of a mourning brother left to his own grief to worry about. Was Michael selfish for wanting to feel better before helping someone else to feel better? As if it were his first step to see if getting better was even a possibility? A sign of ‘see! I can be better, and so can you!’? Michael sure felt selfish for it. He closed his eyes and buried his face into the pillow, pulling it around his head to muffle the quiet sobs of Father. 

In the morning, Father wouldn’t bother to pretend that nothing happened. That would require too much effort, oh no no, he doesn’t bother trying to act strong like fathers are meant to. Sometimes, there would be cigarette burns over his hands and wrists, sometimes scars would be opened and scabbed over with dried blood and grime around it. It was up to Michael to clean, to cook, to put aside his own pain to take care of Father. It was a cycle and Michael couldn’t see the ending. He imagined it less like a circle, more like a film reel that constantly showed the same film over and over and over again. The audience never growing bored and the popcorn never running out. 

The following morning, Father didn’t come out of his room again. Michael didn’t bother checking to see if he was even alive or not in that tomb of a master bedroom before moving away from the door and downstairs. Breakfast. He’d delay the possible inevitable of finding Father’s corpse in bed by cooking breakfast and deciding that is how he would find it. Carefully turning an egg over in the pan of bubbling oil, Michael barely looked up when he heard shifting footfalls from the floor above him. Oil popped and he flinched back before a stinging set in, waving his hand quickly to alleviate the intense heat, hissing through his teeth with it. He heard a chair scooting out at the table and paused, then turned his attention to the dining-room door.

“Father…?” The boy called out.

No response. 

Michael frowned and looked back to the pan, hurriedly turning off the heat and moving the pan to a different burner altogether. Better safe than sorry. He wiped his hands on his shirt as he shuffled to the dining-room door, thinking for a moment before pushing open the door and peeking in. No one was in the dining room. No one much ate in there anymore, anyway. He stepped into the room as he looked to the table, silently counting four chairs with one pushed out. Her chair. He tensed up and hurried over, pushing it back in urgently. His chest tightened when he realized something was preventing the chair from pushing in, peeking over the back of the chair to notice a small head of curly orange hair sitting in the chair. He froze, then whispered ever so softly,

“… Lizzy…?”

“What are you doing?” 

Michael jumped and his eyes darted to the doorway, seeing Father leaning against the doorway to keep himself up. He blinked slowly. Michael stared back in surprise before looking down at the chair, to the hair, then back to Father. The teen stammered with his words as Father’s tired eyes rolled down to the chair, the head of red. The man winced afterwards. 

“Why did you go into her room?” Father whispered, voice bordering on heartbreak, on anger and sadness. “Why did you bring that out?” 

“I didn’t,” Michael quickly replied, “I, I heard the chair move and came in and it was out and—” Father cut him off with a simple, familiar gesture, shush. Michael obeyed. Only then, did he notice the bottle in his father’s hand. The boy shuddered. Father followed his eyes to the bottle and barely made the attempt to hide it behind himself. “Father…” 

“Go put it back. Stay out of her room from now on.” Father growled out, glaring down at him almost accusingly. “I thought I made that clear, boy.” 

“Yes, sir,” Michael mumbled out in a meek tone, hesitating before looking down at the thing in the chair. He pulled the chair out to reveal the head of red was a doll’s. He grimaced, yet didn’t dare to look up, knowing Father was still glaring at him. Michael didn’t want to touch the doll. He didn’t want to be near it. He didn’t want to think about it. He lifted the doll up from under its arms and held it at arm's length. It had a bit of weight to it, but nothing unmanageable. Michael kept his head and eyes down as he shuffled out of the dining room and past Father, ignoring the horrible scent of booze and cigarettes that clung to the man. He was growing sick of that smell, more so that he was getting familiar with it than with the knowledge of what it came from. It came from pain, from suffering, from loss. Michael wanted to feel, too. 

He hated dolls. 

He was scared of dolls. 

He hated dolls. 

Michael stared at the door decorated with pink and yellow flowers and glittery stars and plenty of stickers she picked up along the way. He didn’t dare touch them. He would ruin the door, too, if he touched it. His eyes looked to the doll, then to the door. He hated this. He wanted to leave. He wanted to smash the doll into little bits and never think of any of these stupid toys or this house or these people again. Michael wanted to run away and never think about Father killing himself, or Lizzy dying, or anything. He wanted to stop thinking. He wanted to stop. 

Michael opened the door and eyes stared back at him. Right, Lizzy’s toys. He shuddered as he clicked on the lights. Everything was left the same since the party. He looked down at the doll and half expected his sister to hurry over and scoop it up lovingly, threaten to tell Father he touched her toys, or to hug him and thank him for finding it. It really was a hard fifty-fifty draw for lost toys. Michael shifted from side to side, not daring to take another step into that room he knew too well. How many little tea parties did she hold in here? How many times did she squeal out for Michael or Father to take care of a creepy-crawly that managed to find its way into her room? How many little dress-up fashion shows for her or her dolls did she run through here? Michael’s heart hurt, his chest hurt, he gripped gently onto the doll. 

He stepped into her room slowly and carefully, as if the fuzzy pink carpet below him would shatter like ice and plunge him into the freezing abyss below. If he were to drown, surely this would be the time for it. He hoped he would drown, really. A pretty room left behind by the owner, every toy she laid out still sitting neatly in place. Age treated the room like a ghost; forgotten yet always there. He let out a shaky sigh as he spotted the little chair at her tea-party set, realizing there was a hole in the dust where a familiar little toy would sit. He looked at the doll and realized, finally, how dusty it was. If he looked closely, he swore he saw cobwebs in the hair. Michael winced and crouched down to sit the pretty doll back into its little chair. He glanced over the table with a frown, noticing the delicate tea set scattered around the table. It was a gift from Father, the tea set. Pastel coloured plastic cups, plates, utensils, a teapot, some baring stickers and others clean and polished. Plastic food sat on the plates, untouched by the stuffed animal and doll ‘guests’ surrounding the table. At first, Michael thought it would be rude to leave the meal out, before considering the idea that the guests were simply waiting for the host. Ah, of course. They /were/ just waiting for a host that would never arrive. Their heavy heads either staring straight ahead or hanging down with the weight.

He sighed as he stood up, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from picking at his lips again. Michael took a step away from the table, then another, before forcing himself to turn away and go for the door. He felt eyes bore into the back of his head with a shockingly intense anger, of fury, of rage. The teen stopped at the doorway and dared himself to look over his shoulder back to the table. 

His stomach dropped.

The ‘guests’ were suddenly staring at him.

Father wasn't sobbing that night. Michael laid in bed with his gaze staring straight ahead to the ceiling, his mind stuck on the mental image of those awful toys staring at him. Their cold, fake eyes glaring up at him with a hatred he didn’t know toys could have. He shuddered and gripped the sheets under him, forcing himself to continue to stare upwards. He would lock his door if Father hadn’t removed them. Why would he need to lock his door anyway? They were toys. It was just toys. He was tired, he imagined it. Right? He turned his head to look at the clock, reading aloud in a tired whisper, 

“One thirty-three a-m,”

He rolled onto his side and stared out of a window, going as far as sitting up on the edge of the bed just to look out better. The moonlight caught the basics of the area; the leaves in the minimal trees, the gravel up the driveway, the houses far in the distance, he thought he could see a deer if he stared hard enough. Michael moved over and sat on his knees in front of the window, his arms folded on the window frame, just staring out into the nothingness that was the outskirts of Hurricane. The teen sighed. He wasn’t sleepy-tired, yet his body and brain craved sleep. He wanted the darkness to take him. He closed his eyes. 

The door opened.

He flinched and looked back over his shoulder, wide eyes glued to the door as it slowly crept open. Wider. And wider. Light from the hallway poured in and began to illuminate the teen’s room. Michael simply stared. He couldn’t think of what else to do other than stare. Was it helplessness? Was it fear? He hated it either way. Gathering his strength, he rose to his feet with the windowsill to keep himself up. Father wouldn’t be visiting. Father doesn’t visit. And yet, with no other name to call, he called out quietly, 

“Father?” 

Silence. 

He tried another name. 

“Lizzy?” 

Micheal stared at the door in silence.

…

“You’re Afton’s kid, ain’t ya’?” 

Michael jumped, head smacking against the bottom of the counter, making the contents rattle and made him hiss through his teeth. He grabbed at the back of his head as he, more carefully, stood up from his crouched position behind the prize counter. He stared, annoyedly, at the other standing on the other side of it. 

“One of them,” Michael replied before releasing his sore head, “Why do you ask?” 

Michael had heard it plenty of times before, how much he looked like his father, how he was growing as tall as his father, how his eyes looked like just his father’s; but that’s not what this new person said. Instead, he blew a large, brightly pink bubble of gum and let it pop, nibbling it back in his mouth. 

“You sure you’re not adopted or something?” He asked and Michael paused, “You look nothing like him.”

“I’m… I’m not adopted.” 

“Coulda’ fooled me.” 

Michael looked to his nametag and raised a brow, reading it out loud, “Mike?” 

“Hm?” 

“Your name, your name is Mike?” 

“Oh, yeah, Mike Schmidt,” Mike turned and hopped up to sit on the prize counter, then swung his legs around it to face Michael. “And you’re in my area, ya’ know.” 

“Ah, oh, I’m sorry. You’re the prize counter worker?” Michael sheepishly shuffled through the little door to leave the prize area, standing on the other side of the counter as Mike dropped down in his previous spot. 

“Not really,” Mike replied, thought for a moment, before explaining “I’m the intern, but they just move me around the place. I was a pizza runner yesterday, office aid the day before, blah blah blah. I don’t have much of a set job here other than ‘intern’.” Michael would reply, Mike asked, “Which Afton were you?” 

“Are you,” Michael corrected.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, you asked ‘which Afton were you’. You should have asked ‘which Afton are you’.” 

Mike stared at him, bored, and blew another bubble. Michael frowned as he popped it and let it sink past through his pierced lips. Mike, slowly, asked, “Okay… So which Afton are you?” 

“Michael,” He hummed in reply, fidgeting with the cuffs on his sleeve, “Michael Afton.” 

Mike chuckled and after a moment, smiled. He commented, “You look like a Michael, anyone ever tell you that?” Michael shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, you look like a Michael. Do I call you ‘Mr Afton’ too or just Michael?”

“Ulg, just Michael,” the taller grimaced, “I hate the way Mr Afton sounds. It-“

“It makes you sound like your dad?” Mike grinned. The taller let out a sigh and nodded, leaning his hip against the counter with his arms folded across his chest. Mike thought for a moment before beginning to tap his fingers against the counter. Michael noticed his nails were painted black, or perhaps it was a marker painting them, he wasn’t sure. He wished he could paint his nails, too. Father would be livid, though. He liked Mike’s piercings, he caught himself staring at the ones on his lips. The lips that smiled at him, forming words that Michael didn’t hear at first. Mike laughed. 

“Huh?”

“Hey ‘Just Michael’, what are you staring at? Do I have something on my face?” 

“Technically,” Michael forced a chuckle, tapping his lip where Mike had his piercings. Mike grinned again and laughed sarcastically. 

“Yep, haven’t heard that one before. Don’t wanna’ be like your dad but uses dad-joke level humour? You’re weird, Michael,” Mike tilted his head a bit, keeping his grin, folding his arms over the counter, “Lucky for you, I like weird.” 

Michael stared at him in silence, then smiled back. 

…

It had been a week and Michael’s thoughts were still stuck on Mike. He was shorter than Michael, he always had the faintly sweet smell of bubblegum that was beginning to bring him comfort. For some reason, Michael trusted Mike; they went to the school but Mike was a grade ahead of him, though they were the same age, they bonded over their mutual hatred of math and the teacher who taught it: they both liked popcorn and chocolate, but never together: they both liked to draw and read and play video games: and they both hated William Afton. 

Mike was an avid fan of anything horror related, often talking excitedly about the newest film he’d seen or book he’s read in the genre. Michael wasn't much of a fan of horror, he was far too squeamish for the guts and gore of Mike’s macabre tastes – but Mike was always there to offer a shoulder to hide behind or arm to squeeze. It had taken quite a bit of courage to accept Mike’s invitation to come over to watch movies at his home, but he was glad that he did. 

The smaller lived with his brother, he explained one late afternoon at work, toying with pens on the desk.

“Yeah, I live with my bro, he’s a park ranger who’s saving up to be a doctor but I think he should just stick to be a park ranger. He likes it a lot more. He’s uh, he’s not home a lot but when he is, we hang out and watch movies and do brother shit.” 

Michael, who pretended to be going through files in the filing cabinet for father, but really just wanted to be near Mike, nodded and asked in turn, “Where does he work?”

“Mm, Red-Oaks Park. That real big place like, an hour away or something.” Mike replied, Michael nodded again. “It’s huge, he normally stays super long hours and has a cabin up there for him and his rangers buddies.” Mike rolled a pencil over the desk and held his cheek with his free hand, propped on the elbow on the desktop. “I’m lonely sometimes, but I have my rats and my spider. Friends come over too.” 

“Red-Oaks. Oh I’ve been there, it’s lovely.” The taller commented. The other agreed. 

“Yeah, I only go down to see him or find cool rocks by the lakes.” 

“Mike,” Paul chuckled as he looked up from the computer monitor, adjusting his glasses to look over at him properly, “You also go down with us sometimes for camping.” 

“Yeah, but it’s a cabin. Does that count as camping?” Mike leaned against him and looked up at the ceiling, balancing the previous pencil on the tip of his nose – trying to, at least. Paul smiled and looked back at the monitor, his bandaged fingers typing once more. 

“Ah, I guess you got me there, kid.” The older laughed. He noticed Michael’s curious glance and paused typing again, cleared his throat, and explained, “My ah, pa owns property in Redoaks, a little cabin with a pond, a fishing hole ordeal. Ya’ know how it is. We go up there every summer and sometimes the winters, it’s a tradition. Or, uh, just uh, or just whenever we want an escape for a while.”

“Huh, property up there? Your father must make very good money for that kinda’ thing. Ah, I don’t mean to be nosy…” Michael mumbled. Paul laughed again, covering his mouth with his hand, Michael noticed more bandages wrapped around his palm. 

“Ah, no no, you’re not being nosy. I promise. Haha! Ah, well, it’s, it’s complicated what he does. What he did, I mean, I guess.” 

“Mr Fazbear is awesome, when is he visiting again?” Mike asked, finally getting the pencil somewhat stably balanced on the bridge of his nose this time. 

“Mr Fazbear?” Michael repeated, raising a brow. “I thought your last name was Hibbart. That’s what it says on your name tag.” 

“Oh, well, to, to be uh, to be honest… Um…” Paul turned his attention back to the computer and hummed, almost nervously. “… My pa is Noel Fazbear, I go by Hibbart. It felt odd working in Freddy Fazbear’s when my last name is Fazbear. And it, it uh, it’s kinda’ to set me away from the connection? If that makes sense? It’s weird, I know, but…” 

“No,” Michael interrupted, slowly lowering a file, “I do get it. Uh, I’d change my last name if I could.” Mike glanced at him from the corner of his eye and Paul peeked over the computer to him, both waiting for an answer. Michael noticed, huffed, and returned to the file cabinet. “… I’m not sure to what yet. But not Afton. It’s sound so harsh, even without the history behind it. It feels like, like a slap to your face. Like being told you’re wrong on a question you worked really hard for and are sure it’s right, but you’re wrong and given no idea how to fix it. It’s just… A sad, painful, bitter name… People choke their last breath on names like Afton, I don’t like it. It’s probably just me though.” He shrugged and hesitantly looked back at them, both now fully attentive and staring at Michael with both sadness and worry in their gazes. The two exchanged a look before returning to Michael. 

“Hey uh, wild idea,” Paul smiled after a moment, “Since I’m taking Mike up for the weekend and my brother won’t be there, we uh, we’ll have a spot open. Do you wanna’ come up with us? It’s lots of fun.” 

Mike perked up and sat up, grinning, “Yeah! Come up with us, Michael! It’s really cool and like, it’s a huge cabin. And there’s lots of places to swim and stuff. And sometimes there’s bodies in the lake.”

“There’s no bodies in the lake, Mike,” Paul shook his head, then looked to Michael and repeated, “There’s no bodies.”

“Hey, your dad told me his stories. There were.” 

“He’s an old man, he makes stuff up.”

“You’re an old man,” Mike stuck his tongue out at the blonde. 

“Am not, I’m 26,” Paul chuckled and mimicked the action back at him. They stared at each other like this for a moment before laughing. 

Michael stared at them in silence, then smiled, and nodded finally in response.

…

“Hop on.”

“What is this?”

“Your ride home.”

“I thought you said you drove.”

“I do drive.”

“It’s a scooter.”

Mike frowned and pushed up the visor of his helmet, staring at Michael after. He mumbled, “You want a ride or you wanna’ bitch and walk there?” He smiled afterwards. Michael gave in with little resistance and sighed. Mike scooted forward on the seat and patted the small space behind him. He repeated, then offered the spare helmet tucked in his lap, “Hop on.” 

Michael glanced around before sighing and taking up the helmet. He noticed the back and chuckled, “Buba?” written over it. Mike waved it off and closed his visor. Michael was hesitant to put it on, but did, and adjusted it a bit. Slowly, he climbed onto the back of the scooter. 

His arms wrapped slowly around Mike’s waist, holding on firmly. His heart began to race. Mike felt so small in his arms, so delicate, yet Michael knew better. The guy who apparently fist fought with people twice his size, as coworkers and other students had gossiped – Michael knew he was far from delicate. 

Soon, faster than Michael realized, the scooter was taking off down the road. Michael flinched and squeezed Mike in his arms to keep a good hold. 

The evening was blushing from a deep pink to a lovely red, soon to black, each few moments more lovely than the last. The clouds were dyed like cotton candy against the watercolour painted evening sky. Michael watched in awe as they buzzed through the street, occasionally hitching or jumping against the ledge of the sidewalk or road. It was exciting. Michael was giddy as he clung to the smaller, grinning from ear to ear. 

Maybe life was beginning to brighten for him, maybe this was the start of something new and something better. Maybe this was his chance of escape. Maybe, just maybe, he could leave Hurricane. 

Father’s car sat in the driveway as the scooter pulled in front of the house, a house that stood like a grave before a real home. Mike put the scooter in park before glancing back at Michael, then looked to the house itself. Michael didn’t let go of him yet. He squeezed him again. 

“I’ll visit you tonight,” Mike whispered, Michael’s hold relaxed, “What window is yours?” 

…

Father was sobbing again that night, distant and muffled, yet so hauntingly nearby. Michael had taken up the habit of sitting outside of Elizabeth’s door and whispering to it, mumbling about his day, what was happening in life, how father was, and so on, and so on. Sometimes, he’d watch the shows she liked just to give the door a recap of what occurred that episode. Michael wanted to believe that it settled the dolls inside, they stopped moving when he spoke to the door. He wanted to think that Elizabeth heard him inside her room. When she was alive, when either sibling was upset and would hide away in their room, the other would come to whisper to them through the door or slide notes under it. So maybe, Michael thought, this was bringing her comfort again. 

“I get scared that you’re lonely,” He mumbled, knees brought close to his chest, fingers fidgeting with the carpet below him, “But then I know you’re with dad, so you’re not alone. Dad will keep you company up there.” 

He’s interrupted by hearing his window slide open, glancing down the hallway to Father’s room before looking back at his own door. Michael stood up slowly, pardoned himself from Elizabeth, and hurried back to his room. He closed the door as Mike finished crawling in through the window. The punk grinned at the other and straightened his jacket. 

“Heya’ ugly,” Mike whispered, “Fun night?” 

He paused when he heard the sobbing, his smile dropping a bit to glance to the door. He looked back at Michael, who eagerly rushed to him and hugged him close. Mike chuckled and hesitantly hugged back. 

“You okay?” He asked softly. Michael nodded. 

“I don’t want to think anymore, Mike, I don’t want to think about any of this.” 

The smaller nodded and rubbed over his back, then peeked up at him. He smiled softly, small hands reaching up to cup his freckled cheeks. He whispered, ever so softly, ever so lovingly, 

“I can help with that.” 

He led him slowly to the bed and Michael sat on the edge, looking at Mike silently. The other dropped gently into his lap, straddling it, peppering kisses up his neck and to his jaw. Michael shuddered and gripped the sheets as Mike’s kisses trailed downwards, the shorter scooting off his lap and onto the floor on his knees. Michael’s jeans were unzipped and he tilted back his head, staring dazed at the ceiling. 

“I’m a virgin,” He mumbled quickly, Mike paused but resumed his actions. 

“A blow job won’t take your virginity, nerd. Just relax…” He bit his lip with a delighted smirk. “Call this a little favour, Michael.” He loosened Michael’s jeans and chuckled softly, raising his brows in surprise. “… Ah, scratch the little part.” 

Father continued to sob in his room, Michael soon forgot all about it and fell asleep.

…

Elizabeth’s doll sat at the table again, in her chair, waiting for breakfast. Father sat at the head of the table with his head in his arms and a half-empty bottle beside him and a filled ashtray on the other side – asleep. Somehow. Michael winced. Could he have been the one to set the doll up? Was this a test somehow? He didn’t want to take the chance of Father waking up to the doll, so he gathered it carefully in his arms. Michael frowned as he struggled to stand up with the doll, not sure how it could be possible – but the doll weighed more than it should have. He stumbled a bit but settled the doll on his hip where it was easiest to carry it, arms around it, holding it close. 

Holding it like he used to hold Elizabeth. It weighed as much as a child. It shouldn’t be possible. 

Michael felt tears stinging in his eyes as he couldn’t help himself from putting his hand up to the back of her head, feeling the large curls, putting his chin atop her head. He had carried her so many times like this, held so close, so protectively. 

“Lizzy,” He whispered, turning away from Father and carefully shuffling out of the dining room, “It’s okay.” 

Little plastic arms slid up and around his throat, her legs winding around his waist, holding onto him tightly. Elizabeth sniffled and buried her tear-filled eyes into Michael’s shoulders. 

“I gotcha’,” Michael hummed, heading for the stairs, his feet leading him on a trail so familiar yet so painful, like following bloody footprints through halls of broken glass. “It’s okay, it’s okay, Buggy.”

“When’s dad coming home?” She whined, wiping her eyes with her fist, the question hurt the boy as he began his trek up the stairs. 

“Dad’s, ah, he’s with… I… I don’t know,” He replied, petting her curls back down only for them to spring up moments after. Father sobbed from the dining room. His mind was a haze as he felt the girl sniffle and cry in his arms.

“I miss dad. He said he was coming home. Why is daddy crying? I want to be with daddy. He’s sad, I want to be with daddy.” Michael was beginning to break down, squeezing Elizabeth in his arms, Father’s sobs echoed off the walls. Howls of agony and sorrow rang in Michael’s ears and bounced around in his skull, shaking in his chest, hurting his heart. He wanted nothing more than to comfort Father, be comforted by Father. He wanted dad back. Where was his dad? Michael hurriedly wiped away his tears as he neared Elizabeth’s room, she couldn’t see him cry as well. She needed someone strong and Father couldn’t do that for her now.

“Let’s play a game, Buggy,” Michael mumbled as he opened her bedroom door and hurried in, closing the door behind him. “Any game you want. We’ll play it as long as you want. Okay? Any game.” 

She shifted in his arms and looked up at him, Michael didn’t dare look down. 

“Any game?”

“Any game.” He smiled weakly. 

“Can we have a tea party…?” 

Michael set the doll in the empty chair and sniffled, wiping his eyes urgently. He pet the curly hair and tilted his head a bit. Maybe Michael was going insane, it’d be easier than staying sane in a place like this. He adjusted the little doll and looked around at the other guests, noting how the little tea set hadn’t moved. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, they weren’t waiting for Elizabeth. He stole a glance at the bedroom door as it softly closed, sighed, and looked back at the table. 

He sat down on the floor ever so slowly at the empty place set out for him. With a trembling hand, he raised up the little plastic tea-cup and smiled through his tears. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” He wept, “Let’s play, Lizzy. As long as you want.” 

“Promise?” 

He chuckled and lowered his cup, rubbing his eyes with his fists. She smiled and poured a fake cup of tea for him.

“I promise.” 

…

“You look like shit,” Mike mumbled, surprised as Michael shuffled through the doorway and into the office. Paul elbowed him gently. “What? He does. I say that with love.” 

“Michael, kid, are, are you okay?” Paul asked in a more gentle tone, “You look sicker than a dog.” 

“I’m fine,” Michael muttered as he leaned against the desk, holding his head, “Just tired. I’ve been having weird dreams… It keeps me awake.” 

“Jeez, how bad can they be?” The shorter frowned. Michael hesitantly looked back at them, looked at the doorway, then back to them. He asked, in a soft, fearful tone,

“Can you keep a secret?” 

…

“Jesus fucking christ, you have demons.” 

“Mike,”

“It’s true! That’s straight-up demon shit!”

Michael sighed shakily into his hands and shook his head, looking to both of them slowly. “I feel like, like I’m going insane. I keep seeing these things. I keep seeing Elizabeth. It’s like, like flashbacks of things that’s happened, but it’s happening right now. I don’t understand.” 

Paul was hesitant, but he put a hand on Michael’s back and rubbed over it in soothingly slow circles. He frowned, worriedly, and mumbled, “Yeah ah, you’re, you’re having flashbacks. That’s what happens when you have trauma like that. I learnt about it in college. Basically, uh, when um, when your head gets too scared or nervous, it sorta’… Mm… Goes around? Shows stuff in the back of your head? Does, uh, does that make sense?”

“Not at all,” Michael admitted as he sat up, looking up at Paul with a frown. “I don’t understand.” Paul leaned against the desk and kept a hand on Michael’s shoulder, a comforting hold the younger silently appreciated. Was he really that attention-starved? He shook off the thought. 

“You’ve gone through a lot of shit, Michael, your head is trying to catch up,” Mike commented, “If you ever need someone to talk to, know we’re here for you. Okay? You shouldn’t have to do this Hell alone.” He reached over and took up Michael’s hands, squeezing them lightly in his own. Michael nearly cried. He sniffled and wiped his eyes with his sleeve, nodding in response. 

“Promise?” Lizzy asked in a soft whisper. 

“Huh?” Michael tensed up. 

“Promise? To talk to us?” Mike repeated, petting back his curly hair, nuzzling their foreheads together. “When things get bad, promise to talk to us, to me, to someone.” 

Michael anxiously glanced around the office, but gave in and soon nodded. 

“I promise.”

…

Michael is the breaker of promises in the end.


End file.
